Night Walker

by Lisa Kessler

  Beethoven’s classic was one of the most demanding piano pieces she ever learned to play. The slow, almost liquid beginning never left her memory, or her fingers. Grateful for the company of the music, even if it was slightly labored, the melody eased her fears and gradually released her from the hold of her nightmare. Finally, with a hint of a smile on her lips, she gave up Beethoven and instead banged out a gorgeous rendition of “Chopsticks,” grinning as she held the final chord. She could almost hear her mother now, rolling her eyes and telling Kate that playing “Chopsticks” with two fingers was a waste of a piano.

  It felt good to smile when she remembered her parents.

  She took her mug back to the kitchen. Rinsing out the cup, she stared at the predawn darkness, lost in thought. What would happen to her mother’s piano? Would Calisto ever sit on that same bench, or touch the keys? She shook her head and turned off the water. She didn’t even know if Calisto played the piano.

  Settling back into her father’s easy chair, she hoped for a little more sleep. The warm beverage helped calm her nerves, and with luck her nightmare wouldn’t interrupt her again tonight. With a yawn, she curled up and closed her eyes. This time there was no running and no thundering hooves. No, this time a scent like sweet jasmine and a white flower that looked like crushed silk filled her dreams. And in her sleep, Kate smiled.

  …

  1775

  The full moon glowed above the warriors whose pace Gregorio struggled to match. He wiped sweat from his brow though the cool, crisp air stung his lungs. They neared the cliffs and the treacherous climb to the opening of the Old One’s cave. Not only was the terrain steep, but instead of firm rock footing, hard sand formed the cliff. The farther they climbed, the more he slipped, scraping his hands until the skin was raw and bloodied. Never had he been so grateful for the sandals protecting the soles of his feet.

  By the time he reached the mouth of the cave, his heart raced. The warriors stopped, leaving him to enter alone. Torches rested inside carved holes in the side of the cave and lit a narrow pathway.

  Once his eyes adjusted to the dim light, he moved deeper into the cliff, his shadow flickering on the walls around him. The sight of the Old One beyond the final curve of the tunnel did nothing to ease his apprehension. In fact, the closer he came to the man sitting cross-legged on the other side of the fire, the more his anxiety grew.

  The Old One’s long, white hair fell past his tanned shoulders, and although the firelight was not bright, the old man’s dark eyes seemed to glow crimson for a moment. A cold chill slid down Gregorio’s spine, and he squeezed his eyes closed to clear his vision.

  He bowed his head. “Greetings,” he said in the tribal language of the Kumeyaay. “I am Father—” He corrected himself. “I am Gregorio Salva— ”

  “I know who you are.” The Old One didn’t speak in his tribe’s tongue, but in Spanish.

  “You know the language of my country?” The fire snapped, echoing through the cave.

  “I know many languages,” the Old One said. “Why have you come?”

  Hot, stagnant air choked him and sweat trickled down his back. “To become a member of the tribe.”

  “No. You came for answers that might heal the pain in your heart.” He stoked the fire without making eye contact.

  Gregorio frowned. “How do you know this?”

  The Old One’s gaze rose from the flames to meet his, and a strange realization formed in his mind. Deep in the old man’s eyes, he saw wisdom that appeared far older than the man. Only his pure white hair betrayed his age. His face bore no lines or wrinkles. It made no sense. Gregorio rubbed at his eyes, sure he was mistaken, but the man’s youthful face remained a contradiction.

  The Old One ignored his question. “You seek vengeance. But vengeance will not bring you the peace you seek. Only love will heal your wounds.”

  Gregorio bit back the pain and loss that were his constant companions. “I will never love again.”

  “You will. When she lives again.”

  Gregorio’s gaze shot up to meet the old man’s. “I will never live to see that day.”

  “You seem certain.” The Old One ceased poking the fire, resting the long stick against the side of the cave. “Are you so sure of the world around you that you would give up a chance to see her again?”

  “I would have offered my life to save hers, but I did not get that chance,” Gregorio said.

  “And now you would kill those who took her from you.”

  “They deserve no better.”

  “Perhaps not.” The old man tossed another log into the flames. “You were once one of them, an outsider. You came on a ship to this land and laid claim to something which did not belong to you. What makes you a better man than them?”

  “I was naive. My intentions were only to help these people. The warriors tell me you can look into a man’s heart. Surely you can see I speak the truth.”

  The Old One went silent, and his eyes seemed to glow in the dim firelight, as though the old man wasn’t simply looking at him but rather through him.

  “You loved Tala,” the Old One whispered.

  “With all my soul.” He wondered how the old man knew her name, but perhaps the Shaman from the tribe informed the Old One of her death.

  “Enough to wait for her to walk this earth again?”

  “You believe she will?” Gregorio struggled to keep his voice controlled when everything in his body wanted to beg this medicine man for any kind of magic to bring her back.

  “Do you always answer with more questions?”

  “Forgive me, but I have been raised to believe when a soul is laid to rest, her spirit dwells with the Lord in Heaven. How can you be certain this is not true?”

  “How can you be certain this Heaven you speak of exists?”

  Gregorio clenched his fists to keep from shaking the white-haired man. “Now it is you who answers with questions.”

  A small smile curled on the Old One’s lips, briefly giving his face the lines of an older man. “I have given no answers. Not yet.” His stare mesmerized Gregorio until he was lost in the Old One’s eyes. “First you must answer my question. Is your love for her strong enough to see you through the years until her soul finds you again?”

  “It makes no difference.” Gregorio met his eyes, his voice dropping to a whisper. “No man lives forever.”

  The Old One’s laughter echoed through the cave. He shook his head. “You know nothing, Father Salvador.”

  “Father Salvador no longer exists. Only Gregorio remains.”

  “Is that so?” The Old One’s eyes twinkled in the firelight. “A man can change his name, his title, but he is still the same man, no?”

  “No. I will never be that man again.”

  The Old One rose from the fire with ease seldom seen in one so aged. Gregorio watched as he retreated into the shadows and returned with a pipe and clay goblet. “We will make a trade this night. I will give your body the strength to face the centuries. You will be ageless. Immortal.”

  “If that were truly possible, what would you take from me in exchange?”

  “You will give up the sun, and you will help these people regain their land and their culture. These priests baptize them and take away their names and their beliefs. You will help them to free themselves from the bonds of a God they do not understand.”

  Gregorio wanted to refuse. Both sides of this trade were impossible. No man lived forever. Only God was immortal. And how could he honor his end of the bargain? He was no warrior. How could he help the native people to reclaim the land the Mission now declared its own? He wouldn’t know where to begin.

  Seeming to sense his reluctance, the Old One sat beside him, placing the smoking pipe in Gregorio’s hands. “Look into the fire. What do you see?”

  He stared at the flames and puffed the pipe, letting the peyote smoke fill his lungs.

  “I see her,” Gregorio said. “Her long black hair is falling down her back. She has the Rom
neya I gave her tucked behind her ear, and the moon is in her eyes.” His voice shook with emotion as his jaw clenched, fighting to hold back tears. “She is laughing, splashing through the waves on the shore.”

  “You can see her again,” the Old One whispered. “Love her again.”

  Was the fire getting hotter? The flames grew, and the peyote smoke filled the cavern. His head spun and his eyesight blurred. He could no longer distinguish reality from illusion.

  The Old One danced around the fire, his shadow circling the walls of the cave. Everything spun like a whirlwind, each image blending into the next. Nothing made sense, and he wondered if he might be dreaming. The Old One lifted him to his feet with one hand. A sudden burning pain shot through him, and his heart raced.

  He saw a lush jungle and triangular stone structures. And blood, so much blood. Chants echoed through his mind in a language he had never heard. His legs crumpled under him, but he didn’t fall. The Old One brought a clay goblet to his lips, and he drank until the cup was empty.

  Somewhere deep within, Gregorio’s soul cried out in warning, and the last remnants of his faith clutched at his mind. For a moment he hesitated, but then he saw Tala smiling up at him and heard an echo of her laughter. He needed to see her again. To love her again.

  Gregorio took the cup once more, but instead of quenching his thirst, the lust for more grew. The Old One filled the cup again and again, and Gregorio drank until he fell to the ground.

  “Live forever,” the Old One whispered. And the shadows swallowed him in their suffocating embrace.

  Chapter Four

  Calisto rushed toward the Mission de Alcala with preternatural speed. He listened intently, not only to the night sounds around him, but to the mortals he passed. Long ago, he learned to close his mind to the internal feelings of men and women, shielding himself from their intrusion, but tonight he wanted to hear them.

  Tonight he hunted.

  The Fraternidad had violated his home while he slept. Calisto ground his teeth. They would pay for their intrusion.

  He didn’t know how they had masked their presence from him. He hid his true nature from the mortals, but somehow the Fraternidad learned to hide from him as well. But this time, they had come too close while he lay defenseless beneath the earth.

  Calisto rolled his shoulders back, loosening the knot of fury building within his muscles. They wouldn’t threaten him again. He would see to that. The zealots would respect his power, or they would die. He didn’t care which. He’d finally found Tala again, and he wouldn’t let their intrusion come between them.

  As he approached the mission, his chest tightened with bitterness. He hated this place, these walls that he helped to build. The church annihilated a beautiful culture and replaced it with the beliefs of another. He tried to stop them once, but he was a different man back then.

  Calisto jumped over the fence with ease and searched for the thoughts of the man who delivered the threat to his home. He stayed in the shadows, concentrating on each of the inhabitants. He listened to the thoughts of the mortals around him, allowing them to whisper into his mind. One priest was consumed with his dinner choice, while an employee in the gift shop tallied the days’ total receipts. He dug deeper, searching for thoughts regarding a monk visiting from Spain. After a few more minutes, he growled in frustration.

  The monk from the Fraternidad del Fuego Santo was not at the mission. None of the priests knew much about why the monk traveled to San Diego or where he slept, only that he arrived two weeks earlier and would be in San Diego indefinitely.

  Calisto hadn’t seen the man’s face yet, but he now had his name. Tomas. Father Tomas De Cardina.

  Calisto disappeared into the darkness. He had no time to waste. The Gaslamp Quarter nestled in the middle of the high-rise downtown buildings would be his next stop. Allowing his mortal façade to fall away, he focused his immortal abilities, stalking the streets of downtown, searching the memories of the mortals around him.

  Surely someone had crossed paths with Father De Cardina by now.

  Face after face passed him by, one man worried about his job, a woman concerned for her sick mother, and another wondering if her date stood her up. Endless human babble intruded on his consciousness, but still he found no one who had been to the mission.

  Frustration burned like indigestion. He wanted to find Kate again, not waste precious time searching for another fanatic from the Fraternidad. While at times he enjoyed hunting them, now that she lived again, his priorities had changed.

  They killed her once. He wouldn’t take the chance they might hurt her again.

  Valuable minutes slipped away, but no simple solution presented itself. The monk would not be mentioned on the Internet, nor would he rent a hotel room. The Fraternidad would forbid such publicity.

  Calisto searched until his preternatural senses were overloaded. The scent of beer and sweat overpowered him as men and women gyrated against each other to heavy, thumping music inside the nightclubs. He heard their insecurities, the yearning, and the few who hoped they might have finally found love.

  Love. He clenched his fists, fighting to control his emotions. He loved once, but it was gone far too soon, stolen from him. Worse yet, now that he had a chance at love again, the same faction who ordered her death centuries before threatened to keep them apart.

  His rage was getting him nowhere.

  In an effort to calm his mind, he ventured downstairs into the dimly lit Café Sevilla, lured by the familiar sound of his native tongue. Flamenco dancers clapped to the rapid beat of the Spanish music, drowning out the voices of the bar patrons. The club below the restaurant was warm, making his body feel even more inhuman and cold.

  Stepping up to the bar, he ordered a brandy and swirled it in his glass as he settled in a dark corner. The flamenco show ended and one of the performers smiled in his direction from the edge of the stage as if she recognized him. Calisto returned the gesture with a polite nod. He often came to the café to watch them dance. The sound of the rhythmic clapping to traditional Spanish folk songs spoke to him.

  They reminded him of a place and time he had once called home.

  Tonight, he visited for a different reason. His gaze moved over the patrons, studying their faces until he spotted a woman who wore a gold crucifix around her neck. He opened his mind to hers and saw the mission bells and candles. His fingers tightened around his glass. She had been at the Dia de los Muertos mass.

  Calisto watched her sip a margarita. Thick, dark hair framed her fair skin, and her large brown eyes met his from across the room. He placed his untouched drink on the bar and approached her.

  “Good evening.” He allowed the hypnotic tone he usually reserved for his victims to color his voice, making his lies more believable. “I think we met at the Mission de Alcala last night. For the mass?”

  “Oh.” She nodded, accepting his mental suggestion as fact. “I thought you looked familiar.”

  When she offered her hand, he placed a polite kiss on the back. The scent of her blood enticed his heightened senses, tempting him. Hunger gnawed at him. He wouldn’t be able to stay much longer.

  He straightened, releasing her hand as he spoke. “My name is Calisto, and you are?”

  “Gina,” she answered.

  Flirtation filled her gaze as she wet her lips, but he wasn’t interested in a lover. He indulged in human pleasures of the flesh a few times over the centuries, but sex left him feeling more alone and isolated.

  Without love, it was an empty act, and eventually he lost interest.

  He didn’t want her body. He wanted her memories. Encouraging idle conversation, he studied her mind, searching.

  His interest was piqued when he saw the sanctuary of the mission in her mind. “You speak Spanish, yes?”

  She nodded. “My family is from Mexico. Why?”

  “There was a priest at the Mission from Spain—”

  “Father Tomas! I met him, too.”

  “This worl
d is indeed a small one, no?” He smiled, letting his eyes hold hers. He saw the monk’s face in her mind and gathered all of the information he needed from her. His gaze burned into hers, mesmerizing her until he could reshape her memories. It drained him mentally, but trivial, non-traumatic memories could be altered. He erased his face from her mind as a teacher might erase a chalkboard. And then he was gone.

  Gina had indeed met Father Tomas. Moreover, her family offered to house him during his stay in America, but the priest declined. He told them he had church business to attend to in Point Loma.

  Father Tomas already made it plain that he knew where Calisto lived. Point Loma was nowhere near his home. Odd…

  So what business did Father Tomas have in Point Loma?

  …

  1775

  Buried alive.

  Clawing in a panicked frenzy, Gregorio shot up from the earth with a strength he’d never possessed before. When he broke free of the soil, he gasped deep breaths driven by fear rather than need. He turned back to see the shallow grave he escaped. What had the Old One done to him?

  His body reeked, and he was sickened to realize he was covered by dirt, blood, vomit, and excrement. And he was thirsty.

  Dear God, he had never been so thirsty in all his life.

  “You must wash.”

  Gregorio spun around to find the Old One placing a large Spanish barrel full of fresh water on the ground before him. A barrel much too large for any man to carry alone.

  “You buried me alive,” Gregorio shouted.

  “You first must die in order to live as I do.” The old man dipped his hands in the water, rinsing them.

  Gregorio frowned. “You speak in riddles.”

  “Wash,” the Old One said. “We will speak at the fire, and then you must feed.”

  Gregorio nodded, although he still didn’t understand. Had the old man tried to kill him? The Old One walked away, but something about the way he moved confused Gregorio, and he rubbed his eyes. The farther the old man walked down the beach, the more difficult it became to see him clearly. His body appeared to mutate, shifting into a bird. No, not a bird. A white-headed eagle.